And Then There Were Four
by Shadowed Seas
Summary: The four remaining pilots say goodbye to one of their own. A one shot. Character death and some angst. No yaoi, or relationships at all really.


_And Then There Were Four_

By Shadowed Seas

This is just a random one-shot that I pretty much wrote out whole one day. The idea just kinda hit me and wouldn't leave me alone, and since my physics professor had decided to try for the monotone voice award, I just got it all out in one sitting. It's a big first as this is my first fic I am putting out on my first piece for Gundam and my first try at such a melancholy kind of story, so constructive criticism would be appreciated. Now let's get on with it.

Warning: This story contains character death and mild angst. There is no yaoi, yuri, or any real relationship that goes beyond friendship between anybody, unless you want to pretend and put meaning behind the characters' actions beyond the obvious. There are no real spoilers, just some general stuff about the story. This fic is set in the not too distant future of the Gundam Wing world, and the characters may seem a little OOC as I only have a passing association with the works, and for that I apologize to the diehard fans of Gundam Wing.

Disclaimer: I do not have, never did have, and never will have, ownership of Gundam Wing or any of its characters. This story however, _is_ mine in its pitiful entirety as I got it from the monkey with the typewriter who lives in my head.

It was raining.

How clichéd…and yet strangely appropriate.

Most people would say that sunny weather would have been better suited for today, but they didn't know him. With their matching sorrowful expressions as they stood beneath black umbrellas in order to protect their tailored suits, they couldn't possibly have known him.

They hadn't seen him fight for what he believed in, and then try to bury his sorrow when nothing changed. They hadn't watched him kill in order to keep his comrades and himself alive, only for him to later hide by himself for hours, shaking in reaction and guilt. They hadn't stood by his side as war ripped the world apart, then struggle with him to put it back together again. They hadn't placed their life in his hands and had his life placed in theirs. They hadn't seen him laugh through the pain of multiple wounds, or collapse from over-exhaustion after stretching himself beyond the breaking point. They hadn't been allowed to see past the cheerful mask that he hid himself behind.

So as they all walked slowly back to the exit and the dry warmth that waited for them at home, he stood there in the rain. He knew the other three were behind him, he could still sense the difference in his surroundings when they were there. After all their presence was a comfortable feeling, and that was rare for him. It was something familiar and safe for him to hold onto. The four of them stood together silently in the pouring rain, letting the water soak through their hair and clothing because it didn't matter.

"A drunk driver."

The others shifted slightly as he started talking into the encroaching shadows. He could tell that they hadn't expected him to speak.

He hadn't expected it either, but he couldn't seem to stop.

"He lived through a childhood on the streets of L2, was the only survivor of the total destruction of the first home he ever knew, lived through fighting in almost suicidal combative situations during the wars, and he got killed by a drunk driver."

He heard a strangled laugh, an outburst of pain instead of humor, and was slightly startled that it seemed to be coming from him. A hesitant touch on his shoulder had him tensing, ready to attack, until he recognized it as Quatre's hand. The others seemed to recognize his need to do this –this explanation– without interruption and stayed silent.

"It was dark, and he was riding his bike. He would do that sometimes. Just ride for no reason. He said it made him feel like he was flying again."

He knew that he never talked this much, that the others were slightly worried that he was doing so now, but he had to talk. It wasn't really his choice, he would rather stay silent, but it was as if something was forcing the words out of him. It hurt. God, it hurt to talk about this. But he couldn't stop.

"The driver of the truck, Jeremy Gallard, a 37 year old man with a wife and a nine year old daughter, was drunk; a test done after showed he had a blood alcohol level of 1.7, and was driving over thirty kilometers per hour past the limit." Why was he reciting this like it was a mission report? Why couldn't he just tell them? Why couldn't he stop talking? "The driver didn't see him, it was dark and cloudy with low visibility and one of the intersection lights was out and he was wearing black like always and…"

The hand on his shoulder tightened slightly as he stopped. Whatever was pushing him to talk couldn't make him continue, it was too much. He wasn't supposed to feel this much. How could he follow his emotions if they were drowning him?

"You couldn't have done anything. No one could have seen this happening."

It was Quatre. Quatre was always the one who tried to comfort, tried to make everything all better. But this wasn't something he could make better. This wasn't something that he could use logic and gentleness on to make it right again. This was greater than any comfort words were capable of giving.

"None of us could have…"

A sob and the sudden releasing of his shoulder told him that Quatre had broken down into tears. From how muffled his crying was he probably had buried his head into Trowa's chest. A small part of his mind wondered how he had managed to hold out against all the emotions for so long with his empathy, but that section of his mind was buried under the torrent of sorrow that was overwhelming the rest of him.

"He is gone. We remain and must keep going."

Trowa's voice was quiet, his words seemingly emotionless unless you knew him well enough to be able to hear the sorrow beneath the passive tone. He was mourning silently, stoically, as he always did.

"He would expect nothing less."

That was true. He knew that was true even if he didn't want to accept it. There would be no drastic measures or giving up. If there was something after –no…there had to be something after, the god that that silver cross stood for, could not be so cruel as to take that away…when he got there he wanted a reunion that did not involve him getting yelled at for quitting.

So he would do his missions, just as he always had. He would go to head quarters and read schedules and timetables, go on keeping people safe from the dangers of a peaceful society, and write reports of completed tasks. He would remain one of the Preventers best agents, and he would try to ignore the empty space in his double office where a desk used to be.

A shaking voice brought him out of his thoughts of the future.

"If…if you need…if you need anything, you know we are here…right Heero?"

The hesitant note in Quatre's voice almost made him turn from his study of the new grave, but it wasn't enough to pull his eyes from their stare. It wasn't nearly enough. He nodded instead, a silent indication that he was aware of the surrounding world again. There was a quiet sigh, and then the fading sound of two sets of footsteps could be heard on the wet grass as Quatre and Trowa walked away.

And now there was just the two of them left standing by the grave. Night had slipped upon them, deepening the shadows until only the dim lights along the path alleviated the darkness.

"You…"

A pause followed the quiet word, as Wufei seemed to reconsider what he was saying.

"That he was ki…that he was taken from us without warning is a great burden to us all, but there…there are two ways to see his passing."

Wufei's voice was quiet and contemplative, so different from the indignant rants about 'justice' and 'stupid onnas' that he still gave with persistent frequency. He seemed almost hesitant about speaking, as though he knew what he had to say would not be well received.

He couldn't care. Not now. Whatever Wufei said, whatever he was nervous about could not reach him through the maelstrom of emotions that still held him captive. Nothing could hurt him more than what he had been staring at for several hours now.

"His passing so soon could be seen as an injustice, or…or it could be seen as a blessing."

He stiffened as the words registered. A blessing? A _blessing_! How the hell could this…this… _horrible _tragedy be a _blessing_? One of them was gone forever; _he_ was gone forever and Wufei was calling it a blessing?

His back stiffening and his change to a slightly more offensive stance did not go unnoticed, as Wufei's next words were rushed in an attempt to keep him from attacking. Wufei might have come to the funeral unarmed as requested, but all of them knew that he was _always_ armed.

"He is no longer plagued by his guilt. You know better than anyone how much his past haunted him and how he got when anyone mentioned his part in the wars! He only killed to protect others, to keep innocents from death…he killed to make sure others didn't have to."

Wufei calmed slightly as there was still no gun pointed at his forehead. He started slowing his words and softening his tone as he continued.

"He is free of that now…free from the horrors we all had to survive…free from the fear that he would loose one of us, that we would be taken from him as everyone else he has ever loved was."

Wufei stood there waiting for a reaction, but when several minutes passed by without a sound or a motion he turned and started to walk away, only to pause at the edge of the path.

"Shinigami is finally at peace."

With that Wufei disappeared into the shadows and rain, walking towards the exit of the cemetery.

He had been wrong. It did hurt more…it hurt more than it should have…it hurt because it was true. He knew that everything that Wufei had said was true…and that it hurt. The wars had been a horror to live through. Even for the Perfect Soldier there were nightmares consisting of blood and fire and screams, screams that tore at his sanity and made him wake gasping for air as sweat poured down his face. If they affected him like that…what must they have done to _him_, with his conscience and ethics, with his emotions hidden behind a jester's mask?

He was alone again.

"I thought I was done with this. With being alone. You were always butting in, getting in the way, never respecting anyone's privacy. You brought the others with you, but they respected the boundaries I set up, you just ignored them. No matter what happened there was always your jokes and your pranks and your ridiculous stories. Why did I never tell you that I liked your stories? Or that your pranks were funny? Why can't I stop talking now when I could never start then?"

He was breathing hard, almost gasping. He was not exerting himself, he wasn't exhausted or lacking air, but he couldn't control his breathing. Neither could he control the fact that some of the water on his face was tainted with salt. The gravestone was a white blur, a simple monument to what he had lost. His hand slowly reached up to his neck, almost as if it was moving on its own, and grasped the simple silver chain that now hung there. The cross on the chain dug into his palm, to him the symbol of a friend, not a god.

"You were a friend…a brother…and as long as I live, you will…you will never be forgotten."

As he said it, he knew that it would be true. None of them would ever forget him. Even with his actions during the war, he had been a light for them to focus on when the world was smeared in smoke and blood. They would always remember his laughter and his smile; the real smile, not the one he put up as a defense, but the rarely seen, soft, genuine smile that made his eyes glow. And as long as they remembered him, as long as they could hold onto his light, he would still be there with them.

He let the cross lie on his chest again and placed his hand on the rain dampened stone.

"Wait for me, I will see you again at the end." He turned and started walking away, a small, sad smile on his face. And as he disappeared in the shadows of the trees his last words were whispered into the rain.

"Until then…goodbye, Duo."

_Owari_


End file.
